I leaned my bike against the restaurant’s white clapboard siding and went inside a way I rarely did: through the front door.
People wandered hither and yon, hauling lights and clipboards and rolls of tape. Most of them were younger than I was and were wearing black pants and black T-shirts, looking extremely serious. I spotted two people I knew and made my way toward them.
“Don’t tell me we’re actually going to finish on time,” said Scruffy Gronkowski.
A wild-haired woman in capris, flip-flops, and a tie-dyed shirt nodded. “If we get this last part in the can in less than two takes, we’ll even be early.”
“Lynn,” Scruffy said, “you are a marvel.”
“Ha. It wasn’t me. It was your girlfriend. You sure she’s never done this before?”
“Far as I know, she didn’t even do high school acting.”
“She tried out for a nun in a production of The Sound of Music,” I said, “but it turned out she can’t sing for beans.”
“Hey, Minnie,” Scruffy said, turning toward me and smiling. “You met Lynn last summer, didn’t you?”
“Over pork tenderloin, if I remember correctly.”
Lynn grinned. “And I’m still grateful that you steered Trock away from changing the menu.” A distant voice called her name, a note of panic clear in the single syllable. “What now?” she asked, rolling her eyes. “See you two later.”
I looked up at Scruffy. “How did it go today?”
He picked a piece of invisible lint off his tailored polo shirt. His nickname hadn’t come about because of reality. “Outstanding. And would you please go tell her so?”
“Pulling a Kristen, is she?”
“Perfection is a worthy goal and all, but it’s also an unattainable one.”
Uh-oh. “Are they done in there?” I tipped my head toward the kitchen.
“If you walk fast, you might catch the last take of the sous chef cutting parsley into perfect tiny squares.”
I blinked. “Harvey’s going to be on TV?”
“Kind of,” Scruffy said. “He froze up if he talked or if the camera was on his face, but he was fine with a hands-only shot.”
The world righted itself. Harvey was a great guy, but if I’d been asked to describe his social skills, I would have backed away from the conversation, pleading a dire emergency somewhere else. Harvey was quiet around men and tongue-tied with women, and the concept of his blossoming in front of a television camera was nearly impossible to comprehend.
I went to the kitchen, where bright lights shone everywhere, highlighting everything to the point that I understood Kristen’s recent obsession with cleanliness.
“And that’s it, Harve,” someone called. “We’re good. Thanks.”
“Okay,” Harvey said, continuing to cut parsley.
“Um, we’re all set, Harvey. You can stop now.”
He shook his head, his attention on what he was doing. “It’s for tonight. Kristen wants all this cut up.”
Grinning, I cut through the back corner of the kitchen. That was Harvey in a nutshell. Who cared if there was a national television show being filmed in the restaurant that day, who cared if his hands were going to be broadcast across the land? What mattered was taking care of what Kristen wanted.
I walked along the wide hallway that led to her office, a little surprised to see that none of the boxes and trays and chairs and general restaurant miscellanea that always littered one side of the passage hadn’t been cleared away. Then again, it was just like Kristen not to change anything for the sake of a TV show. I could almost hear her saying, “They can take me or leave me. I’ll clean, but I’m not about to transform myself. If they don’t like who I really am, they shouldn’t have come here.”
Then I actually did hear her say to someone, “You shouldn’t have come here at all.”
A deep voice rumbled back, “Dear lady, you must not judge yourself. Leave that to me.”
I pushed her office door open wide. “And me. I’ve had lots of experience, you know.”
Kristen and Trock Farrand turned to face me. Kristen’s expression was one I’d seen many times before, one that combined anger at herself with deep despair. Trock, on the other hand, was nothing but smiles.
He lumbered to his feet. “Dearest Minerva! I had hoped to see you this fine day.” He leaned forward in a half bow, reaching out for my hand and lifting it to his lips. Postkiss, he straightened his rotund body and released my hand.
“You missed an exceptional day of filming,” he said grandly. “This will go down in history as the episode of Trock’s Troubles that absolutely cannot be missed. From beginning to end it was perfection. Nothing went wrong. The food was exquisite, and the presentation was superb. Kristen here could take over my job without blinking her deep blue eyes. Which,” he added, beaming, “will show up brilliantly. I ordered as many close-up shots as they could manage.”
“Nothing went wrong?” Kristen asked. “What about the strawberries? There was mold. Mold!” she practically shouted.
I winced, knowing that Harvey, poor soul, would have borne the brunt of her anger.
“Piffle.” Trock waved away the problem. “Easy to drop that on the cutting floor, as it were. My dear, the magic of television has an infinite capacity to show what it wishes to show, and I wish to only show the best.”
“Mold,” she muttered. “I can’t believe it. They were fine this morning.” She sat up straight, her chin lifted. “If you want to cancel airing this show, I’d understand completely. I won’t hold you to the contract.”
“Good gad.” Trock blinked. He turned to me. “Is she serious?”
“As a chocolate soufflé.”
Both Kristen and Trock frowned in my direction. “What’s so serious about a chocolate soufflé?” Kristen asked.
I shrugged. “Didn’t want to say heart attack, and I’ve heard a chocolate soufflé is hard to make. Seriously hard, see?”
The twosome stared at me a moment, then went back to their discussion. “My darling restaurateur,” Trock said, “love of my son’s life and highlight of my own, please believe me when I tell you the finished product will be wonderful.”
Kristen crossed her arms across her chest. “Why should I believe you? You exaggerate from morning to night. You probably talk hyperbole in your dreams.”
Which was most likely true, but there was one difference. “Not this time,” I said.
“How can you possibly say that?” she asked.
“Because he never exaggerates about his show.” She started to object, but I held up my hand. “He may talk on and on about a restaurant he’s featured, and he may wax lyrical about a particular entrée that he made, but he never deviates from the absolute truth about an episode of the show itself.”
Kristen’s mouth opened, then shut. She stared at the ceiling and tapped her fingers together. “You’re right,” she finally said.
“Which means . . .” I held my hands out, palms up.
Her smile became a wide grin. “We’re going to be famous.”
“And rich,” I added. The two looked at me again, and I amended my statement. “Well, maybe not rich rich, but you’re certainly going to the most popular fine-dining establishment in northern lower Michigan for months, if not years.”
“Bubbly!” Trock called out at the top of his robust lungs. “We must have bubbly! Scruffy, where are you, son? Get the glasses. Get the champagne. We need to celebrate.”
Kristen laughed as Trock continued to yodel out commands, and I felt myself grinning like a jack o’-lantern, because there was nothing like a friend’s success to make you feel happy inside.
* * *
“It was horrible,” Holly said the next morning. “Just awful.”
I looked at Josh, who nodded.
“She’s right,” he said. “It was horrible.”
“Scary bad.” Holly shuddered.
“What was his name?” I asked.